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So I posted yesterday. Yea, I did that. It was just OK. No, no, no, listen, I know it wasn’t my best, but hey. I fucking tried. I decided that you people deserve better, though. You deserve something to make you laugh. Something to make you cry. Something to make you hold your family close. Something to act as a reminder of what makes us all Americans, and what’s more American than wisdom? Maybe fire and really big sandwiches. And speed.

Here are some famous quotes from me, Iron Kyle:

Forgetting Debt

“OK, so we owe China like $500 billion? OK. This is what we do: We get two or three tons of C4 and get on the next cruise liner to China, then we [Removed by the Editor.].”–Kyle to [Removed by Editor.] on August 20, 2009

Substance Abuse

“It’s only substance abuse if you slap your whiskey before you drink it.” –Kyle, drunk, at a 2009 intervention.

“It’s only substance abuse if your weed tells you it’s too tired to be smoked but you force yourself on it and smoke it anyway.” –Kyle, high as shit, same intervention.

“It’s only substance abuse if your beer accidentally burns the lasagna and you tell it that it’s not a good mom and then drink it with an angry face.”–Kyle, on the edge of vomiting, same intervention.

“My grandfather drank everyday from the time he was thirteen until he was eighty-six. The day he died was the first day he didn’t have a beer in seventy-three years. It was also the first day in seventy-three years that he didn’t pee where people could see. God, he was a bastard.” –Kyle, slightly buzzed, at his grandfather’s funeral in 2007.

Marriage

“Marriage–is a beautiful thing. It’s the joining of two twin spirits into one big, scary, super spirit. This super spirit will sometimes manifest itself in ordinary men. That’s when we need Jesus most.” –Kyle to the Southern Baptist Convention in 2009.

“So you want to get married? That’s fantastic. Before you get married, remember, get about a hundred pounds of C4, then find the nearest passenger liner. Then you’re going to [Removed by Editor.]” –Kyle to his sister Kasey upon hearing the news of her then upcoming wedding.

Abortion

“Listen, even if you don’t want your baby, you should keep it. Every day, remind that kid that it was an accident. Then you can kill it a little bit every day and not have to deal with all the messy legal stuff and people picketing you as you leave a clinic.”–Kyle at a Planned Parenthood convention.

“Yea, my mom tried to abort me. It didn’t stick. I crawled out of that dumpster, went to the Social Security Office, picked up some unemployment money, and got an apartment in East Dallas.” –Kyle, drunk, to those in attendance to his friend Kelsey’s baby shower.

“If you don’t want to bother with all that paperwork that comes with an abortion, I can tell you how to do it at home. First, take about a pound of C4 and put it [Removed by Editor.]”–Kyle, talking to a group of high schoolers about sexual education.

—-

There you go. Just a little quickie before you start your work week.

Love,

Iron Kyle

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As (not) many of you know, it’s totally awesome being famous. People like you, you get a like a million followers on twitter, and you can wear whatever ugly clothes you want. For example: When Daniel Day Lewis walks out of the house like this, he’s an artist.

When I walk out of the house looking like this:

I’m asked to stay out of government buildings and places where young people congregate. This hurts. Don’t people understand? I’m an artist too. I write stuff, you know? I write short stories, I’ve started a screen play, and I’ve written a hell of a lot of “Why you’re a good fit for our company” essays.

Why can’t I be considered an artist? Because I haven’t been on TMZ yet? I need to get onto TMZ. For this reason, I’ve been buying tighter and tighter clothes, doing less and less legitimate work, and drinking more and more Starbucks. At one point I toy with the idea of dating Twilight star Robert Pattinson (Edward Cullen). This plan was immediately nixed when I saw him, got really nervous, and threw up on the ground. However, I did have a brief fling with Kristen Bell. Still, nothing (although, briefly dating Kristen Bell almost makes the whole thing totally worth it.). I need to bust (my meat) out on the scene. I need to be on the cover of every entertainment magazine, every day causing more and more people to ask “Wait, why is he famous again?” You know what I’ll tell them? Just because.

I started going to dance clubs recently. I was surrounded by hipsters doing off-rhythm gyrations and shoulder dips. Oh, honkey (Editor’s Redaction). When will you learn? I needed to go where there were a lot of shiny shirts and nip slips. So I went there. I went there and FLOURISHED.

I stand in line at a pret-t exclusive club in North Dallas. I’m in a line that’s roughly forty people long. I wait my turn. Most people would think that the cooler you are, the less lines you have to wait in, but this isn’t true. If you’re really cool, the party is wherever you’re at. So why rush in and confuse all my followers? They can’t all run in with me (I’m like, super fast.), and I need my entourage.

I need them.

After waiting for over half an hour, my feet start to ache terribly, so I try to pay a small person to carry me on his back until we reach the front of the line. He takes my fifty bucks, but when I try to mount him he just shoves me and calls me devil words. 😦

😥

:””””””””(

8IIIIIIIIID

lol.

My feet still hurt when I reach the man with the clipboard. He’s like an angry, heavy-set St. Peter at the gates of a dirtier, more vomit stained Heaven.

“Kyle.”

“Your last name, please.”

“That is my last name. I should be in there under Iron Kyle.” I wink at him. Any moment now he’s going to realize who I am and OH BOY will he be excited. He looks at me and shakes his head “no.” I pull out a “Dum Dum” and hand it to him–discreetly, of course. He throws it on the ground and tells me that I need to leave. I try to pay the small person to help me in, but he just laughs at me and walks into the club with his regular-size friends.

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When we last left our hero, me, I was being judged to find out if I could go to heaven or not.

—

“OK, Kyle. That wraps up our viewing of your best moments. We’ve seen the first time you touched a boob on purpose, the time you helped that old woman change a tire on the side of the road, and several instances of you putting a penny in the ‘take a penny leave a penny’ tray at gas stations.”

“Yea, I’ve learned to sacrifice,” I say as I unscrew the light bulb from a lamp near the table and put it in my pocket. I begin to eye a jar full of cotton balls when The Doctor interrupts me.

“Let’s move on, shall we?” He says.

“We shall.”

“OK, now for your worst moments. Ready?” He begins to breath softly onto the stethoscope to warm it up. He stepped forward and put it to my chest once again.

Immediately the screen flashes an image of me pushing Editor down some stairs the morning of my accident. I stand atop the stairwell screaming “April Fool’s!” My Editor is saying something about it being August. Then I scream “August Rush!” and hit him with a guitar.

“That was a pretty mean thing to do, Kyle.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I’m trying to fit as many cotton balls in my pocket as I can.

“Kyle! Please! Pay attention. This is your eternity we’re talking about. Don’t you care at all about where you spend your afterlife?”

“Is Jesus in Heaven?”

“Well, yes.”

“Can I go somewhere else? I remember in church being told that he wants me to give him my money or go to places with stinky water. Sounds like a mooch, you know what I mean? Where’s Buddha at? He seems like a good time. Maybe Muhammad? At least hanging out with him would be like a big spiritual action movie. Can I–where’s he? Do you have like– a map?”

The Doctor stood awestruck. He put his hands in his pockets, looked at me, then off into the ceiling and back to me.

“Are you serious?”

“Depends. Are you asking me if I’m serious in a ‘No way I was thinking the same thing!’ sort of way or a ‘I can’t believe you just said that’ kind of way?”

“The second one.”

“You know what? You’re seeming pretty lame yourself. You hang out with Jesus too, I bet. He seems pretty bad at picking his crowd. He should have asked me for help. I mean–none of my friends ever had me killed.”

The Doctor stands stock still and points his finger at the door.

“Clearly you’re not ready for judgment. Hell is full up of people like you. They don’t need any more right now.”

“What happen? Bus full of scientists crash? Heyo!” I hold up my hand for a high five. The Doctor walks up to me and smacks me clean across the face, sending me spinning. Stars fill my vision and I feel as if I’m a pile of sand being blown apart.

I wake up to see the child with the phone and his parents sitting beside me. My parents, friends, and a few enemies that I guess had really been looking forward to this day are all standing around me. I’m in a hospital. The glass has been removed from my leg, stitches covering the wound.

“How did I get here?” I ask.

“Charlie came and got us,” the boy’s parents say. “We drove you to the nearest hospital. You were pretty bad off.”

“Sorry if I bled on your car. If you want, you can contact my Editor for reimbursement. If it’s really bad, he’ll replace the vehicle.” The father nods agreeably and I give them Editor’s home phone number and personal e-mail address.

“Kyle! I got here as soon I could.” It’s Editor. I close my eyes and act like I’m asleep. “Kyle, I saw you just talking to these people. Is that…is that my e-mail address written there?” I begin to make a long beeeeeeep sound in the hopes of Editor thinking I’m dead and leaving. He doesn’t.

“I told them you’d replace their car. I got blood on it.”

“Wh…Kyle, I can’t do that! We’ve talked about this. Why do you tell people stuff like th–”

“–Editor, please. I’m just fresh from the grave. I haven’t the energy to fight. Just give me a damn hug and go get me some pudding from the cafeteria.” He leans forward and gives me a hug. What a girl.

As he’s walking out the door I call out “Hey, Editor!”

“Yea?”

“Come back soon, man. I’ve been dying to talk to you.” I smile and look around the room. Everybody seems kind of disgusted. Too soon, I suppose. Too soon for me to die, as well. Let’s rock, planet Earth.

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Sunday I was driving home from Denton and I died. I was eating my favorite on-the-road snack, chicken fried steak covered in gravy, when I drove my car off a bridge into Lake Dallas. For a moment I’m dazed by the sheer impact. I’m pretty upset. There’s steak and gravy all over my steering wheel.

“Damn it,” I say. “I paid eight bucks for that.” I look around my car and suddenly noticed it filling up with water. “Water…? Did my car’s water break? Car?” I say, “Are you having a baby? Are you having a baby car?” It in fact wasn’t. I was in my aquatic, automotive, death chamber. I try to roll the windows down, but the mechanism has shorted out and they sit motionless. “God almighty,” I say. “I need to get that fixed.”

I run through my next set of of escape plans. I don’t really want to break my windows (They’re tinted, and that’s kind of expensive.), but I decide that I have a lot more sandwiches to eat and that dying would severely inhibit that. I grab a tire iron and smash the driver side window. I crawl out of the car as it sinks into the lake. I feel the cold water rush against my legs as I pull myself out of the cabin, clawing at the roof. When the tail lights broke the surface of the water the pressure pulled me down roughly ten feet before I’m able to fight my way back to air.

As I swim to the beach, I notice a group of children playing in the sand. Up to this point, I’ve had a pretty depressing day, so I decided to have some fun. I go down under the water and swim toward the beach. I slowly raise up out of the water, covered in seaweed and mud, making guttural groans and pointing at the children.

“RAAAAH!” I yell. The children run away screaming. It’s here that I notice a large piece of my driver side window lodged in my inner thigh, a warm rivulet of blood running from the wound to the back of my knee and to the sand, forming a puddle around my feet.”Wait. Is that my blood?” I ask a child who is trying to take a picture of me with his cell phone. “That is my blood, isn’t it?” He only nods and I hear a sharp *Click* sound from his phone. Then, I black out.

I wake up in what appears to be a big waiting room. It smells like cinnamon and lumber. I love those smells. In fact, they’re my favorites. They are my favorite smells. I reach into my pocket to tweet about my favorite smells, but I don’t have my phone. I start to freak out for a bit, patting down all my other pockets and eying everyone surrounding me with suspicion. I decide to go out to my car to see if I had left it in there. I stand up, still looking around the room for any sign of guilt or extreme happiness from the acquisition of a new/stolen phone. Nothing.

I walk to the door, or rather, where I figured a door would be, but there isn’t one. There’s no visible exit out of this building. There’s only a door at the northwest corner of the room, leading you further into the office. There’s a clerk’s window as well. I go up to ask her a question when I hear my name called from the door.

“Mr. Irion? He’s ready for you.” It was a petite African-American woman in a nurse’s uniform.

I follow her down a long hallway. The walls are painted teal and the floor is carpeted in industrial-brown. We walk for a long time, then it’s as if the walls fade away and we’re surrounded by stars. Our footsteps leave brilliant patches of white light behind us. I try to write “Kyle 4-ever” with my foot, but the nurse reaches back and gently pulls me away. At some point, the walls return and we stand in front of a large Oak door.

“That’s a really nice door.” I say.

“Yes sir.” She says and walks away.

The door opens and I walk in. There’s a man in a white coat leaning on a counter in front of an examination table. He has a very well-groomed mustache. What a show off.

He gestures for me to sit down and I do.

“Kyle. It’s good to see you. I’m sorry to be seeing you so early, though.”

“Wait, what do you mean? Is this morning? Damn it. Who tricked me into waking up early? I don’t ‘do’ mornings.”

“No, Kyle. You’re dead.”

I spit out a drink that I hadn’t realized I was drinking. “What? I’m right here. What do you mean I’m d–”

“You’re dead. You bled out on that beach. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Is this heaven?”

“Not quite. What I’m going to do is take a diagnostic of your life and decide if it’s healthy enough to go to heaven. So why don’t we get started, eh?”

“OK.”

“Let’s look at your best moments first.” He presses his stethoscope to my heart, and a screen to my right becomes illuminated. Images begin to flash on the screen. The first thing that appears is me as a child, no older than three or four.

“Stud.” I say.

In the image, I’m babbling on about something, sitting with my brother, when a spider begins to approach us. I reach out with my toy and smash it. I then pick a booger and fall over.

“Th…that’s one of my best moments?”

“That spider was highly venomous, Kyle. It would have killed your brother had you not smashed it.”

“Yes, well. I do what I can.” I sit and imagine how much better Christmas would have been if my parents only had to buy presents for two people instead of three. This thought later appears during my worst moments segment.

The Doctor only looks at me and shakes his head.

“We have a lot more to get to. We should probably continue with the tests,” he says. I agree and sit quietly as he searches with his stethoscope.

Have you ever seen that movie “Be Cool”? After I watched that movie I was worried about my own coolness level (I was so worried that I didn’t even pay attention to the movie, except the part where the rock slapped his butt and made noises for quite a while). Now i know what your thinking, “Where is he going with this?” and “Stop reading my mind”, and you know what I say to that? “Shut the fuck up, and let me finish the Damned Blog, jeez.” Anyway I took the Jane Goodall approach, and lived among the young people to learn their ways. I dressed up in “cool” clothes and when to the local mall. After years of research here are a few excerpts from my study journal…

Wesley’s Study Journal of the Young and Unbearably Stupid

Day:243
October 26, 2007
3:36 pm

The leader has finally accepted me into their Clan!!!! The leader, the one I call “Giant Douche”, asked if I wanted to “Squat my Load” at the table (Lord, I hope that just means to sit down). He asked me “how’s those balls” (Translation: Whats going on, Whats up). I said that I was “frozen” (I am fine) and “Whats your knuckles like” (How are you) to which Giant Douche replied “Bitches be text’n” (Bitches are Texting). Then Giant Douche’s friend “Smaller Douche” spoke up. Smaller Douche said “Evil Cloth, Fornicator” (Nice shirt, Buddy), I was wearing my shirt with Carlton from Fresh Prince being brutally murdered on the front of it. I said to Smaller douche “10-4 homey”. To my dismay, every one at the table stared at me and I ran off crying…
sigh… back to square one.

Trendy language facts:

-The word “butt” is used interchangeably with any describing word.
ex. “Her dress is very butt.”, “My butt feels like butt.”

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Last week, I received a phone call from an unknown number. I half expected it to be another one of those Spanish-language sweep stakes things telling me that I had (working from a rough translation) either won a free trip or that one of my goats had gone missing. I was wrong.

“Hola. Bienvenidos.” I say. I’m not sure what the second word means.

“Robert Irion?” A woman’s voice comes from the other end of the line. I sit up in my recliner, startling my cat and spilling chili all over my crotch.

“Uh, y-yes,” I say, fumbling for words while getting Frito pie out of my loins. “He is this. No–this is he, I mean. How can I help you?”

“This is Hannah from Sally White & Associates. We received a resume from you in reference to our proof reader position.” By now, I’ve used the cat to clean up most of the chili. Cats are like rags that meow at you. “I’d like to schedule an interview with you for this upcoming Thursday,” she says. I think this girl wants to bang me.

“Sounds great. What time?” I ask.

“We have a slot at nine o’ clock.”

“Nine? Like at night?”

“In the morning.” This girl is starting to sound like a real bitch.

“OK, well–” She could sense the hesitation in my voice and quickly suggested another possible time slot, two o’ clock that same afternoon. “Very well, then.” I said.

“OK, Robert. I’ll be sending you a confirmation e-mail shortly.”

“Hey. While you’re there, why don’t you send me a pic?”

“Excuse me?”

“See you Thursday!” I hang up.

I needed to buy new clothes. I went to the local boutique in Waxahachie: JC Penney. I knew exactly what I needed because I had recently watched a documentary called The Office. Really fascinating– like the ER of the business world. It showed me that the good guys always wear dark, skinny ties and make out with the secretary. The bad guys wear short-sleeve collared shirts and part their hair in the middle. I want to be a good guy. I want to make out with the secretary. I bought a pair of charcoal, slightly pin-striped slacks, loafers, a black skinny tie, some dress socks, and a black belt (I have like ten of these at home, but they’re the kind you get for kicking ass, and wouldn’t fit in my belt loops.). I’m going to look stellar.

I try all these things on the night before and attempt to get a job from my father–just to see if I had gotten my money’s worth.

“Hello, sir.” I hold my hand out. My father, sitting in a recliner in our living room, reading by lamp light, looks up to me.

“Robert?” That’s what my dad calls me. Robert is short for “Colossus.” It’s also long for “Bob,” “Rob,” “Bert,” or “Obe.”

“Father. I’d like a job. I feel I’m more than qualified.”

“Yea? What makes you qualified?” He takes off his reading glasses and turns to me. “Yesterday, I called the house from work and you said you were watching your fish, trying to see if you could tell which one loved you more.”

“Dad, that’s science. That’s science work.” My father lets out a single, mocking laugh and puts his glasses back on.

“Son, the only thing you’re qualified to do is act as a constant reminder of the Porsche I could have bought with the money I wasted on your education.”

“So, I got the job?” My dad looks up at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He shakes his head and returns to his book.

Like this:

I like being healthy. It pisses me the hell off when I find out I have illness. I remember one time a doctor told me I had an inner ear infection and I ended up slashing his tires and writing “Stick this in yer ear” on his windshield with shoe polish. It was really embarrassing when I had to go in later because I left my phone on the table, but still totally worth it. All that being said, being healthy and having good preventative medicine is really important to me. I understand, however, that people will still need medical care occasionally for things that preventative medicine cannot avert. It’s this reality that makes proper health care a must.

Some people–people like me and my dad–don’t need a whole lot of medicine. We hardly need any medical care at all. It’s easy for people like us, the genetically healthy (mutants), to say “Listen, I don’t care a whole lot for medical insurance or who’s payin’ for it. I just don’t care.” It’s also easy for these people to get clawed in the face by my dad.

Me and the ol' man last Thanksgiving.We're thankful for rust remover.

Some people, however, can’t help but get sick. And unfortunately, it just so happens that some people who get sick can’t afford the medical care they need. Some can’t even afford to see the doctor so that he can tell them they can’t afford the medicine they need. How do we remedy this? Free health care? Perhaps, but perhaps not. (See, that’s how I sound intelligent without actually saying anything at all.)

I admittedly know practically nothing about the debate over private and public health insurance. So, I contacted my sources (Wikipedia, my brother Nick, MTV), and got some more information.

The 8 principles of Obama’s health plan are to:

Better utilize technology to provide faster access to medical records. There is also a proposal for the President to finance a plan to get stupid freaking Facebook Chat to work. (“‘No longer online?’ They were midsentence! They still have a speech bubble!”)

Support research into treatment comparisons so doctors and patients have a better idea of what specific path would be best for them.

Double cancer research funding, including a $6 billion injection (medical pun) to National Health Institutes.

Recruit more into the medical health fields, including $331 million for doctors, nurses, dentists, etc. in areas of shortage.

Expand child care plans such as “Early Head Start” and “Head Start” and create new programs to support first time mothers.

Improve Medicare, the government insurance program for seniors.

Give the FDA a big ol’ money vitamin (1 billion milligrams) to support more inspections and aid in the creation of new labs for the surveillance of what President Obama refers to as “food terrorists,” or “germs.”

These all sound great. The proposed cost for the American tax-payer will be roughly $630 billion over 10 years. That’s a lot of clams. That’s a lot of beans. That’s a lot of bucks, dubloons, cash, change, currency, baby fists. I made the last one up.

Detractors of this plan claim that it would provide a hefty price tax-wise The reason this plan will be so expensive for each individual tax payer is that each one of us will be paying for every other citizen’s use of EVERY available medical treatment–from in-vitro fertilization to mental health benefits–treatments that are much more expensive any procedure most people usually pay for.

It would also force all citizens to pay the same for their medical insurance in spite of their level of risk. For instance, in the current insurance game, a guy like me– a guy with a mutant healing ability–would have a substantially lower monthly payment because I’m at lower risk of actually needing to draw from my fund. Other people–the elderly, people who juggle fire, or people who mess with me and my dad–are at a higher risk of injury and thus required to pay more because of the higher probability of them actually using the insurance money. With Yomama’s plan, everybody would pay the same, so young people would be TOTALLY JIPPED LIKE WTF GOD, MOM! I, a specimen of human excellence, would pay the same as that old guy I saw at IHOP with the weird foot problem. Disgusting. I don’t want the government seeing us in the same way. We aren’t the same. I can jump.

Some say there’s a danger that Americans will over-consume this “free healthcare,” driving up taxes, making the plan actually more expensive than before. Other say th…

This sucks.

Let’s do something more fun. Look at this!

WOOHOOOO! HEALTH!

There are a lot of things Obama wants to implement that the liberal media isn’t reporting. Check THIS out:

Pictured on right: Grandpa. Pictured on left: Sacrifice to the Socialist Overlord.

Washington insiders say that, being under heavy pressure from his constituency (America), Barack has looked to alternatives to private vs. public medical insurance. One anonymous source has told IronKyle Editor that at a recent meeting with the Surgeon General, Barack tossed out the entirety of the U.S. Medical Research heads, screaming about a strong demand for unicorn blood. Michelle Obama quickly saw to the removal of all media related to the J.K. Rowling series, Harry Potter, from the White House. No matter how futile his search may be, the message is clear: Barack Obama wants to harvest the blood of beautiful Unicorns to help the sick. Gross. Have you ever seen a sick person? Do you ever see Lisa Frank putting sick people on her stationary? No. Do you see beautiful paintings of sick people being ridden by ancient Greek gods? No, that’s silly. Sick people are weak and complain too much for that.

Whatever Obama wants, we must be weary. There’s word that no one can find a valid birth certificate for Barack. Could this be because he’s not even from Earth? How could he possibly understand the plight of the human form if he isn’t even human. Think about it. Have you ever seen him get sick? Do you ever see him and Superman at the same place at the same time? Absolutely not.

Oh. All right, well never mind, then.

Wherever this debate ends up, with price locks and heavily-regulated, socialistic governmental control of the medical industry or a completely free-market, private system similar to the one we already have, we should try to remember that we’re all in this together and that nobody’s out to ruin America. That’s just ridiculous. Come on, people now. Smile on your brother. Everybody, get together. Try to love one another right now.